The Man Who Forgot How to Live
by theofoz
Summary: The boy-who-lived is all grown up, complete with his happy ending: loving wife, three adorable kids, big house in the suburbs, career success. Harry Potter is just starting to suspect that contentment isn't all it's cracked up to be when he receives terrible news from an old friend. The Elder Wand is gone and someone is hunting him again - and his hero skills are a bit rusty!
1. Chapter 1: Just Another Day

**AN: Here's an opening shot! Based on reviews, may continue and spin out the story. But if people do want more, fair warning: I will most likely have to add chapters very slowly, so please be patient! Thanks**_  
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The floor was cold against Harry's bare feet, and he summoned his slippers with a wordless spell. Better, he thought, as the heating charm embedded in the terry cloth automatically activated upon contact with his skin.

"Best gift ever," he muttered, mentally thanking his youngest son, Albie, for his last Father's Day offering. Though he was also partial to the mood tie George had just given him for Christmas. He thought it would save a great deal of time and trouble if his secretary knew to hold his calls whenever his necktie turned red. Indeed, spell phones were one of the more irritating Weasley Company inventions of the last 10 years, he reflected. No such thing as privacy anymore.

He stood up, and winced as his knees creaked and groaned. What was it about turning 40, he wondered? It seemed like one day, everything was fine, and the next, everything was sore and there was hair growing where he didn't want it and falling out where he did. The closer he got to 50, the worse it got.

"Ligamen lenitas," he muttered, easing the pain in his joints. The spell wouldn't last, but at least it would make him more comfortable for awhile.

Something had woken him up, and he wasn't sure what. He had an uneasy sense, the way one feels when there's a strange noise in a silent house full of sleeping people, or when one's left the oven on by accident. He summoned his bathrobe, deciding to go downstairs and look around, maybe get a glass of warm milk.

He rubbed his hand absently across the scar on his forehead, which he often did when he was worried. He could swear sometimes - like right now - he could feel a slight ache there. He remembered from his childhood something about old muggle sailors feeling a storm coming on in their wooden legs, and he wondered if it was like that. Phantom limbs, they were called. So he supposed that made his a phantom evil megalomaniac? He shuddered at the thought.

Never did figure out why muggle sailors have wooden legs, he thought idly.

Downstairs, he checked his work spell phone, but the only new messages were from the Auror Information Technology Team, notifying him of a network upgrade, and two outages. Naturally, he thought, rolling his eyes. The Ministry insisted on having these last generation models because they were supposedly more secure to intrusions from dark magic, but he figured Shacklebolt just didn't want to spend the money on new ones.

He looked at the family clock his mother-in-law had given them. Albie and Lily were at Hogwarts, though he saw that Lily was not asleep. Somehow, he suspected his 15 year old daughter was not studying at 2 am on a Thursday evening. He made a mental note to send her a howler tomorrow. Maybe he should threaten that if he had to warn her again about too much partying, he would add baby photos of her in the bathtub with her brothers to his next howler and deliver it to her at breakfast. James was asleep upstairs, having moved back in when he lost his job. Harry sighed. Ginny was still at the Burrow, helping her mother take care of her dad, who was recovering from a broken hip that seemed resistant to all attempts at healing it. St. Mungo's thought it might be a curse from an artifact Arthur had found in a muggle junk yard. He sighed again.

He squinted at the extended family in the minute-hand marks and finally just enlarged them temporarily so he could see them better. George was in Shanghai with his wife, visiting one of his factories. Ron and Hermione were at home, and Rose and Hugo were at Hogwarts. Fleur wasn't showing up on the clock anymore, now that she and Bill were divorced, though Bill was home. Someone was with him, apparently, but it wasn't someone the clock recognized. Interesting, Harry thought. I'll have to give him a hard time about that, though he was actually relieved if that meant Bill was finally dating again. Teddy and Victoire were in Paris, and he suspected they were visiting Fleur. The clock chimed gently, as though agreeing with him. Charlie's location didn't show, which probably meant he was on a covert mission, and Percy was asleep at home.

It was a big family.

"They're all safe," came a voice. "I already checked."

"Dammit, Albus," Harry jumped, turning to face the painting in the kitchen hallway. The elderly wizard looked comically out of place crowding into the blue abstract figures in the muggle canvas. "You know you're not allowed in the paintings in my house anymore."

Dumbledore waved his hands irritably at the unmoving figures. "Well, trust me," he said, "it is no picnic for me, either. These things are terribly unyielding. I don't know how you can stand these two dimensional pictures."

"So now you're bothering the rest of my family, too?"

"I told you," he said, crossing his arms and glaring at Harry, "I had to check that they were all safe. Especially when you wouldn't wake up. You're an awfully heavy sleeper, you know."

Harry rolled his eyes. "What seems to be bothering you, Headmaster?" Harry said, with exaggerated courtesy.

"We have a serious problem, Harry," Dumbledore said gravely. "Very, very serious, indeed."

Harry groaned inwardly. "Don't tell me," he said tiredly. "The dark mark has been spotted in Argentina again. Or you found another Voldemort love child?"

Dumbledore crossed his arms and glared at Harry. "There's no need to be so patronizing," he chided. "It's nothing like that." Harry waited patiently, or as patiently as he could where the paranoid portrait was concerned.

"It's the Elder Wand," Dumbledore finally said, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to satisfaction. "It's gone missing."

Just then, Harry's spell phone started ringing. An image of Neville Longbottom rose up off the screen, with a flashing red light that said "Headmaster Longbottom, urgent."

"Neville?"

"Hi Harry," came the worried voice of his friend. "Sorry to call so late."

"Professor Dumbledore already woke me up."

"Oh good. Then you know. Someone's taken it, Harry."

"Are you sure, or is that just what he's telling you?"

"Hey," the portrait yelled, "I can hear you, you know!"

Harry ignored the elderly wizard.

"No," Neville said regretfully. "I'm afraid it's true. I went to look myself. The tomb has been broken into and the wand taken. The wards were utterly obliterated, actually. That shouldn't have been possible. Here, I took a picture with the spell phone."

Harry stood there in stunned silence, looking at the chaotic scene and thinking about the implications. It was one thing to get cheeky with a portrait, but quite another to see the actual body of his mentor thrown on the ground, his coffin upended.

"OK," he finally said. "I'll be right there."

"Good," Neville said. "See you in a few."


	2. Chapter 2: The Tomb of Albus Dumbledore

"Everything alright, Dad?" James's sleepy voice made him jump.

"Oh, James, I didn't hear you coming down the stairs. Sorry to wake you."

"S'something wrong?" He yawned, stretching his arms above his head.

"Just a problem at Hogwarts. Nothing too serious, but I'm going to have to go out there tonight. You okay alone here?" James rolled his eyes.

"Wait, now? You're going now?" James peered into the hallway beyond the kitchen as a movement caught his eye. "Oh, hello, Headmaster. Haven't seen you here in awhile."

"Good evening, James," the portrait said pleasantly. "Or rather, I suppose I should say good morning. You're looking rather well, all things considered."

James was fully awake now.

"What is going on, here?" He asked. "What's wrong?"

Harry looked at his son in silence, wondering how much to tell him. Only he, Ron, and Hermione had known the fate of the Elder Wand. They had later agreed to tell Ginny and then Neville, as well. He wasn't even sure anyone else believed it had been the actual Deathstick itself; the crowd watching the Battle of Hogwarts had more or less heard what he and Tom had been yelling at each other, but few had really understood what they were on about, and no one had ever had the courage to ask him. He suspected Draco Malfoy knew, given that he had briefly been the wand's master, but they had never discussed it.

Harry sighed. "It's nothing, James. You should go back to bed."

James frowned, irritably flicking a lock of messy russet hair out of his eyes. "You know I can sense it," he said, crossing his arms. "I'm not a little kid anymore, Dad. I can handle it, whatever is wrong."

"He's right, you know," the portrait said sanctimoniously. "You underestimate your children."

"Thank you for that, Albus, Why don't you go on ahead," Harry snapped, adding a mild compulsion charm. Dumbledore promptly disappeared from the abstract canvas.

James was still watching him, arms crossed and eyes blazing.

Not for the first time, Harry thought about how inconvenient it was to have a clairvoyant in the family. James didn't go into trances and spout prophecies, thank Merlin - the irony of that would have been a little too much to take. But he could often sense the general direction of the future, and sometimes even present events beyond his physical awareness. It was almost impressionistic, like Harry taking his glasses off and guessing who was in the room and what they were doing based on the blur of colors and movements. A colleague of his in the International Confederation of Wizards thought James might develop more control over the visions as he aged, but Harry frankly hoped not. Foresight was not always a blessing. And in James's case, it had mainly just gotten him in trouble. Admittedly, trouble he had actively and even gleefully sought with his best mates while in school, but trouble, nonetheless.

James was not joking now, however, and he was right. He was unquestionably a grown man, and a powerful wizard, in his own right, even if Harry still saw the laughing little boy

"Dumbledore's tomb has been ransacked," he finally said softly. "An object of power was taken."

James's eyes unfocused and his pupils vibrated slightly. "It has something to do with you," he said, frowning. "It's tied to you."

"Yes," Harry said, resigned to having one more person in the know. "It's the Elder Wand."

James looked startled. "But that's just a bedtime story!" he exclaimed. Harry could tell his son had already sensed the truth, though, and gave him a moment to absorb it.

"No, I'm afraid not," he then said. "And most unfortunately, I am its master." James's mouth dropped open, but then he shut it with a snap and stared, wide-eyed, at his father.

Harry leaned forward and put a hand on his son's shoulder. "Can you tell anything about where it might have gone?"

James closed his eyes for a minute, but then shook his head. "No," he said, disappointed. "Nothing's coming to me."

Harry walked into the kitchen and put his hand on the portkey, which was a porcelain cow, brightly painted and wearing a tutu and ballet slippers. Ginny's idea of a joke. "Well?" he asked his son mildly. "Are you coming?"

James smiled and stood taller, summoning his shoes and socks and transfiguring his flannel pajamas into jeans and a sweatshirt. Ginny was going to kill him, but James needed a challenge, something to restore his confidence. He'd been a top recruit in his year group at Hogwarts, but his job at a wizard investment bank, a new subsidiary of Gringott's, had not worked out. James hadn't really told them what happened, but Harry had a hunch it had to do with a prediction he made about his boss.

James put his hand over his father's, and the familiar pull seized them and sent them spinning towards Hogwarts.

Neville Longbottom was waiting for them at the front gate.

"Harry, thanks for coming so quickly. James," he nodded at his former student, showing no surprise at his presence. "Shall we go straight there?" Harry nodded grimly. Neville held two brooms out to them. "We can't portkey or apparate," he said apologetically. "When the wards were ripped apart, it disabled the portkey and left a great deal of stray voltage around - too charged for any magic, so don't use any spells. Not even lumos," he cautioned, holding up a couple of muggle torches. "I found out the hard way," he said ruefully, gesturing at the scorch marks in his robe.

Harry silently cast a repairing spell.

"Thanks," Neville said absently. "Shall we?" he gestured to the hills beyond the school.

They could sense the disturbance long before they could see it. The spell that had been used to disable the wards was whipping about in the air like a windstorm. It would leave a dark residue in these hills for years.

"Should have brought the spell cell," Harry muttered. The cell, a mix of muggle chemistry, potions, and runes, was something he had worked on with George's team. It could absorb and store curses and hexes until they could be safely discharged or destroyed. He would have to go back for it later.

"Let's get this over with," he said, raising his voice over the swirling currents at the mouth of the tomb and pointing his torch into the entrance.

The stone that usually sealed the grave had been cleaved in half and discarded nearby. He saw James shiver. "Are you seeing something?" Harry asked him quickly.

"Yeah, a two-ton enchanted rock, cut in half like a pat of butter."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Really had to break the crystal ball for that one, didn't you?"

"It's all in how you frame the question."

Harry snorted.

"Shut it, you two," Neville said mildly as they entered the icy chamber. It was still and so silent, it almost made his ears ache with the effort to hear something. So it sounded like a thunderclap when James inhaled sharply as they shone the lights around the room. The coffin had been smashed to pieces, and the mementos that generations of Hogwarts' students had placed in the tomb were strewn around the floor, broken and burnt. But the most shocking sight was the body of the great wizard, naked and shriveled on the floor, shroud ripped off and skeletal hands broken.

"They banished the preservation spell," Harry said in shock. "They desecrated a corpse."

"Yes," Neville agreed softly.

Harry stalked forward and gathered the shroud in his hands to cover the corpse.

"Dad, no!" James shouted, a second too late. The moment Harry's hand touched the former Headmaster, a curse surged up through his body, electrocuting him to his magical core. He didn't even have time to scream before a merciful darkness took him.


	3. Chapter 3: The Hot Wife with Worries

Harry felt as though he were deep underwater, his head murky and his hearing a vaguely tubular muddle. Also, it seemed as though thousands of miniature merpeople were stabbing him all over his body with tiny tridents.

He suppressed a groan, since he didn't know where he was and didn't want to alert anyone that he was waking up until he had a chance to surveil the situation.

He opened his eyes a slit and let the room take shape. Either this is Hell, or it's Hogwart's Infirmary, he thought wryly. Of course. Either way, where else would he be? He shifted slightly and thought Poppy's skillset wasn't the only thing he'd outgrown; he barely fit in the child-sized cot. Then he remembered that Poppy had retired years ago, though he couldn't recall who had taken her place. Probably someone even less qualified, he grumped to himself. That might explain why he was still flat on his back, feeling lousy, with his feet hanging off the edge of the mattress.

Suddenly, he realized someone was sitting next to the bed. He squinted, focusing on the figure. The Scottish morning light filtering in through the long windows was, of course, gray, but it was bright enough to catch the copper glint of a Weasley. His very own Weasley.

Ginny was reading something intently, highlighting it occasionally with a magic marker. He watched her appreciatively. She was wearing a high-collared black, shearling-trimmed vest over a white silk t-shirt and soft gray pants that hugged every curve of her trim, athletic legs. Her long hair was pulled back in a sleek pony tail, the dark red complementing her smooth, tanned complexion. His wife, he knew, was hot.

It wasn't always that way, but her 30th birthday had changed everything. She was in the bathroom that morning when he heard her scream. He came running only to find her staring into the mirror with a horrified expression, hands gripping the sides of the basin.

"What?" He had said breathlessly from the doorway. "What is it? What's happened?"

"My mother," Ginny muttered, never taking her eyes off her own reflection.

"Your mother? What about her?" He had asked in confusion. "Is she alright?"

Ginny had turned to him in anguish. "I'm turning into my mother! I'm only 30 years old, and I already look like my mother!" She wailed. "Look! Look at this!" she said feverishly, pinching the pudge around her middle, pulling at the pocket under her chin. She twisted around and examined her backside in the mirror.

"I've always rather liked the way your mother looks," he said, trying to reassure her. "It's comfortable, you know? It's home."

Needless to say, that was not the right response. His wife had two great magical talents, and he was immediately on the receiving end of one. It took his nose at least a week to get back to its normal shape and color, much to the amusement of his brothers-in-law, who never did persuade Ginny to teach them that hex.

She turned to her talent for potion-making, too, just not right away and not at his expense, fortunately.

Ginny was like a woman possessed; at first, it was just the workouts. She went to a muggle gym for hours every day. Then she added a room onto the house and built her own spell-enhanced gym. She also quit her job in George's potions research department and set up her own laboratory in the basement. Ginny spent years perfecting her concoctions - hair coloring and restoring elixirs, skin-enhancing salves, fat-burning capsules. Now, she was the head of a multi-million galleon industry, Ginevra, a complete line of cosmetics and wellness products. "It's Magic," scrawled itself across every package in Ginny's handwriting, punctuated by a small, sparkling star.

"Like what you see, then?"

Ginny had put down her pen and was watching him in amusement.

"You know I do," he said, embarrassed when his voice emerged as a frail croak.

Ginny leaned over him and smoothed his hair away from his forehead.

"Thought you could get away from me that easily?" She said with mock asperity. "I mean, if this is your idea of a mid-life crisis," a running joke between them, ever since Ron started buying expensive muggle cars, "maybe I'd rather you just shag the babysitter."

"Is that an option, then?" He murmured. "I didn't realize we still had a babysitter."

She smiled at him, and he was alarmed to see there were tears in her eyes.

"Almost lost you," Ginny said softly. "Didn't think we'd ever have to worry about that again."

"What happened?" he asked.

"You don't remember?"

He frowned, struggling to think clearly. "Neville called... It was about the Elder Wand. We made it out to Dumbledore's tomb...with - oh my God, James!" he looked around frantically. "Is he alright?"

"He's fine," Ginny said soothingly. "He's home now - he was at St. Mungo's. He apparated you out of the tomb here and suffered burns over much of his body, but he's healing just fine."

"Wait, why didn't I go to St. M's with him? Why am I here?"

Ginny looked at him, hesitating, as if she weren't sure how much to tell him.

"You were very badly hurt," she started slowly. "You almost died, in fact," she added in a low voice. "You probably would have if James hadn't gotten you this far so quickly. The curse fried your magical core and electrocuted you physically - very nasty business."

"James was lucky to get you out of there at all," a voice came from behind her, Neville gradually coming into view over her shoulder. "I don't know how he knew we had to get you out of there. Well, yes, I do know," Neville acknowledged. "We couldn't perform any magic on you without a serious backlash - it electrocuted you again, every time we tried."

The mischievous look returned to Ginny's eyes. "We still daren't even enlarge the bed, mind you."

He groaned. "How long have I been out?"

"A couple of weeks," Neville responded gently.

"Did you say weeks?"

"Yes, sweetheart," Ginny said, cupping her hand to his cheek. "You've been in a... what's it called, Neville?"

"A medically-induced coma," he responded. "We've been using muggle medicines to keep you unconscious, give your magic and your body a chance to heal."

"We just cut the drugs back yesterday," Ginny explained. "So we hoped you'd wake up soon."

He peered at her more closely and saw the fatigue and worry in her eyes, even though he caught the scent of her Refresh potion.

"I'm fine," he said, smiling up at her and covering her hand with his own. "Really. I'll be back to myself in no time."

Ginny nodded, but the worried look did not leave her eyes.

"Any clue as to who did this, Nev?" he asked his friend.

"No, none at all," Neville admitted. "We don't know much more than we did when we went into the tomb."

"But you know something," Harry prompted.

Neville shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. "That curse," he said slowly, "it was intended to be lethal. You have damn quick reflexes, or it would have been. You got a shield up in time to mute the effect."

"Stupid of me, really," Harry muttered. "I should have known there would be a curse for anyone who touched the body."

"No," Neville corrected him, "not for anyone."

Harry looked at him in confusion.

"Just you, Harry. Only your magical signature could trigger that curse." He watched how Harry received the news. "Whoever took the Elder Wand appears to also know what it will take to truly possess it."

"My death," Harry finished.

"I'm afraid so," Neville sighed.


End file.
